Artificial
by aliveandnotawell
Summary: A not-so-regular morning with Alfred and Arthur, fueled by secrets, depressing thoughts, and a deathly, strawberry-flavored nutritional shake.
The past few weeks had been tougher than Alfred would ever admit to. After the dosage change on his medication he had crashed, everything was difficult, to overwhelming, simple tasks couldn't be completed without him breaking down. Usually he was able to cope decently, because he had Arthur. When he wasn't able to sleep they would stay up together, talking nonsense and asking each other the silliest, most meaningless questions, like "What is your favorite color?", "How are you feeling?", and "What can I do to make you happy again?"

Alfred's depression had been a problem during his adolescent years, of course, but it had mostly gone away when he met Arthur as a junior. Coincidentally he had also started seeing a therapist and gone to a residential treatment program after a suicide attempt, but Alfred still liked to think that what really scared his diseased mind into properly functioning was the love that he received.

But all good things come to an end eventually - he had managed to relapse. It had been three years since he needed to see his psychiatrist for anything other than a check-up, three years fueled by a false sense of security and young love. But that day, two months ago, when he had woken up feeling more suicidal than he had since his high school years, startled him. He had woken Arthur in a panic, hyperventilating, and stained the Brit's silky pajamas with his hot tears.

Apparently he begged Arthur to kill him.

Alfred never really remembers what he says or does during those times though. He doesn't remember exactly what he said, and Arthur refuses to share the details.

Now his Prozac dosage has been bumped up and he has bi-weekly appointments with his therapist and psychiatrist. Things haven't been looking up, necessarily, but they aren't getting worse either. Luckily Alfred and Arthur both work from home and have been able to spend as much time together as possible. Alfred is usually okay as long as he is not alone. He can't stop himself from what he may do when he's alone.

"Alfred? Alfred, love, I need you to wake up."

Rustling the sheets, Alfred groaned and swatted Arthur away, screwing his eyes shut. "I don't wanna." He groaned and rolled onto his side. "I don't ever wanna get up."

The mattress dipped as Arthur sat next to Alfred. Gently rubbing Alfred's leg, Arthur sighed, "Come on, don't say that." He lowered his voice, "Please."

"I'm sorry." Alfred murmured, opening his eyes and moving to lay on his back. "I just…"

"I know, Alfred. But you have to get up and take your medication. I'll make you breakfast."

Alfred wrinkled his nose. "I'm not sure if that's a threat or not but I'll get up as long as you promise not to cook."

Arthur laughed and moved his hand off of Alfred's thigh. "Fine, fine, I'll be in the kitchen. Do you want some tea?"

"There's absolutely nothing I would like more in the world than to pretend to drink and enjoy your shitty leaf water."

"Coffee it is."

After Arthur had closed the door behind him Alfred couldn't seem to tear his eyes from it. It took him another minute to sit up, and another to actually get out of the bed itself. Briefly he considered going to the closet, picking out a nice shirt and a pair of khakis (the manliest pants in existence), and surprising Arthur by showing that he had managed to get dressed and look ready for the day. But after the thought, as brief as it was, he felt his current pajamas were presentable enough. They aren't going anywhere, no reason to dress up. Or change clothes at all. Especially when the majority wouldn't fit.

He raked his fingers through his knotted hair, wondering when the last time he bothered to shower was. Maybe he would shower later, and take on the challenge of cleanliness. Then again, he usually tells himself that every morning.

Every morning, he makes these promises to himself. I'm going to get dressed, I'm going to shower, I'm going to get work done, I'm going to go outside, I'm going to do something with my life. Yet he doesn't usually go through with them. Artificial promises.

When Alfred showed up in the kitchen Arthur smiled and reached up to give him a kiss, as if he was happy to see Alfred, as if Alfred deserved the loving gesture, or any love at all. It confuses Alfred but he never argues.

The strong, bitter smell of fresh coffee wafted through the room, and Alfred finally noticed the steaming pot on the counter. He felt like walking over to pour a mug, filling it with sugar and cream. He wanted to hear Arthur's sarcastic, "Would you like some coffee with that?" But he couldn't bring himself to drink it.

"What do you want me to make you for breakfast?" Alfred asked, and Arthur looked at him.

"I'll eat whatever you make. Are you not planning on eating this morning?" Concern flashed through Arthur's eyes. Alfred usually just ignored it.

Looking back at the pot of coffee, Alfred frowned. "I don't know."

Arthur followed Alfred's gaze and glanced at the coffee pot, seeming confused. "Your psychiatrist told me to make sure you eat enough, and that you have something with your pill. Is today a bad day?"

Alfred looked back to Arthur. "Uh, yeah, I think. I just… yeah."

Furrowing his eyebrows, Arthur kept his eyes on the coffee pot. It was a medium for both of them, a way to avoid eye contact, and avoid facing the problem. "What do you think you can handle? Do you want some coffee? Or a glass of water? I can make you toast, or get you one of those shakes, or-"

"No, I am not drinking the Boost. I already told you that."

"But your psychiatrist told me-"

"Yeah, I know, she told you to have me drink them, but I can't. You don't have to do everything she tells you to and honestly, neither do I."

Alfred's heated glare could have heated up the coffee, metaphorically, as its heat began to drift away because of the cool, morning air and the stone counter the pot sat on.

Arthur deflated slightly but continued on, "I'll grab us something, go sit in the dining room, okay? You don't have to cook."

Nodding stiffly, Alfred walked away. Sitting at the table he could hear the opening and closing of the refrigerator door, Arthur's rushed footsteps on the tile floor. When he joined Alfred he had a plate of fruit in his hands, and two bottles tucked discreetly in his arms.

"I know you like apples, and I got you some grapes, but they didn't have the purple kind, so I got some that were green. And, uh, there's mango, and some dates. I didn't remember if you like dates or not but I wanted to make sure." He placed the plate down on the table and shifted the bottles, one in each of his hands.

"Why did you get the shakes?" Alfred stared at the red, brightly labeled bottles with mixed emotions.

Arthur put them down, allowing Alfred to see the sickly strawberry flavor they promised. "I'm really worried about you, you haven't been eating enough. I thought that if we both had one it wouldn't be a big deal?"

Thoughts rushed through Alfred's head. The shakes are expensive, sickening, embarrassing, unnecessary, he doesn't deserve them, he doesn't deserve the vitamins and nutrients pumped into them, he doesn't deserve the luxury, the calories, the life they provide.

"Please?" Arthur asked, with a begging tone. "Will you do it for me?"

Alfred bit the inside of his cheek. "Yeah. But you have to drink it first, check for poison."

A hint of a smile graced Arthur's face, and he nodded. "Of course." Arthur picked up one of the bottles and screwed off the cap, breaking the seal, and listening to the slight rush of air as it opened. "Cheers." He chuckled nervously and took a swig of the drink.

"How does it taste?" Alfred asked, amused by the other's grimace.

Arthur coughed into the crook of his elbow and nodded. "Ah, it tastes outstanding. Truly a good drink. Not at all like deadly, strangely sweetened toxins." Alfred laughed before Arthur continued. "If I am supposed to be doing a poison test I don't believe I can allow myself to have you drink one of these. A whole bottle may be a fatal dosage."

"Oh, really?" Perking up, he tried to hide his hopeful tone. "So you're saying that I don't have to drink it?"

"How about we compromise - I drink half, you drink half, and we throw the other one in the fridge. Because apparently these are supposed to be refrigerated. Otherwise they taste like shit."

"Wow, you're really making me look forward to this."

"I hope that I am. Here, take a sip." Arthur reached to give Alfred the bottle, but he moved back slightly. "Having second thoughts?"

Alfred shrugged. "They aren't exactly second thoughts if it's never something I changed my mind about." He reluctantly took the bottle.

Staring into the liquid inside, he tried to note every detail. The collection of bubbles at the top, clear and minuscule, that failed to make the remainder of the liquid look any more appetizing. He could taste the chalkiness of the pepto bismol pink just by looking at it. A metallic, bitter scent rose into his nose, yet it still seemed sweet enough that even he would think "enough is enough, this is too much sugar for one drink to have." When he tipped the bottle slightly, side to side, he watched as the froth would slosh around and leave its filmy substance around whatever inner borders of the bottle had been freed by Arthur's brave poison checking.

Of course, it was just twelve ounces of fattening chemicals and sugars that he didn't need.

"Alfred? Can I ask you something?"

His head snapped up quickly and he turned his gaze from the shake. "Yeah, what's up?"

"I know it's an intrusive thing to ask, but I feel like we need to talk about this. Why are you so open when talking about your depression, but you won't talk about this?"

"This?" Alfred gestured to the bottle. "Who would want to talk about this? I don't even think Shia Labeouf would advertise this nasty ass shit. This would ruin your career quicker than a series of laxative commercials."

"That's not what I meant and you know it." Arthur barked, causing Alfred to jump slightly. Taking a deep breath, Arthur returned to his previous tone. "I mean your issues with food. Why don't you ever talk about them?"

"There isn't an issue, I love food!" Alfred persisted. "Food is great. It's not my fault that this," He paused to point at the shake, "ain't food."

"Well you wouldn't need to start drinking them if you ate enough. Why won't you eat? It's not even these past few weeks, I know what's been going on before. Why don't you talk to me about it? That's been the agreement between us, always, that if something was bothering either of us we talk about it. No secrets."

Alfred rose in his chair defensively, "I haven't had anything going on before this that I didn't tell you! I eat plenty!"

Arthur sniffed, "You eat plenty, and I can hear you hacking it up in the bathroom. You know that the walls aren't soundproof, right? So, there have been quite a few times where I've walked through the halls and been graced with the noises of you forcing yourself to throw up what you've eaten. Do you know what that has been like for me? And I waited, for you to come to me and talk about it, or for it to stop happening, or for some sort of change, but it never happened. So why don't you talk about it?"

Already sunken down into his chair, Alfred's shoulders were hunched. "I didn't think you could hear me."

"And is it okay if you don't think I know? Would you still have started purging again if I knew?" His voice grew hoarse, and Arthur's eyes began to fill with tears. "The first time it happened you should have come talk to me. You should've have just told me from the start."

"I just… I didn't want you to be disappointed in me. I didn't want you to think I'm weak. And if I eat less there's less of a chance of me purging, so, yeah. That's been my plan I guess."

"Alfred?" There was a quiver in his voice. "Can you drink the shake? Please? I'll sit with you and make sure you keep it down. Don't bother with the fruit if you don't want to. It'll help, I promise."

In his head, Alfred knew that this wasn't a solution. This was only temporary - and may do more harm than good, if the drink really was as poisonous as Arthur deemed. Yet he nodded and took a big gulp, wincing at the mix of horrendous flavor profiles and chains of molecules that came together like an unpracticed symphony each playing with their own, unharmonized sheet music.

And the hope Arthur felt, the smile on his face, and the half-smile Alfred returned, were just as artificial as the strawberry flavoring trying to crawl up his throat.


End file.
